


Holding Myself Over the Volcanoes' Edge

by Sally_Port



Category: Castle, Firefly, Revolution (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-05
Updated: 2017-11-03
Packaged: 2018-03-21 09:53:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3687804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sally_Port/pseuds/Sally_Port
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the lines between personalities in different dimension begin to blur, several people get to meet their true selves.  It's not what they expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The Twelfth Precinct interrogation room had become as familiar to Richard Castle as any room in his own home and he sometimes wondered that he felt so comfortable there. He’d eventually decided it was because – no matter how the interview was going – it meant another step towards finding a killer, even if the person across the table turned out to be a false lead.

But for some reason the pit of his stomach was trembling and he had no idea why.

His wife, Kate Beckett was facing the man shackled to the chair, her face displaying the typical intensity she focused on suspects, though this time the man was hardly just a suspect. He’d just killed an elderly man on the sidewalk outside an office building with a dozen witnesses who said the confrontation between the two men had been brief and violent.

He tried to shake off the overall feeling of unease that seemed wrapped around him. It wasn’t the overall helplessness of the suspect’s appearance. He’d been duped too many times by a pretty face to know that appearance meant nothing when it came to murder. Nor was it the fact that the red haired man was sobbing openly. 

“So, Mr. Peterson, tell me again, what happened,” Beckett said. It was third time she’d asked; no doubt trying to shake the suspect’s story.”

The man’s hands were chained but he bent down to wipe his eyes with the tissue from the box Beckett had gotten Esposito to bring them earlier. His hands were smooth, pale like the rest of his skin that wasn’t blotchy from crying.

“I was just coming out of the office,” Peterson said. “And this man came up to me. He was going to kill me.”

“And how did you know that. Did he show you a weapon?”

“No.” Peterson almost sounded like he didn’t believe himself any longer. “But he was going to. I was just trying to keep him away from me. He went down and when he started to get back up again, I knew, if I didn’t stop him that I’d never be safe. That my family would never be safe.” 

Peterson closed his eyes like he was confused. He’d done that a lot during the interview.

“Tell me about your family.” Kate repeated and Peterson gave her the same look he’d been giving her for the last hour.

“I already told you, I don’t remember them.” He was nearly whispering.

Since Peterson’s parents were dead and his sister was a semi-hostile investment banker who was in the waiting area torn between screaming she was calling her attorney and ranting how much she hated her brother, it seemed like an odd answer and Castle would have thought it was an act. . .but for some reason he actually believed that Peterson was genuine. Undoubtedly crazy, but Castle had a certain sympathy for people whose grip on reality had twisted slightly.

“So how do you know this man was a danger?”

“He just was. You have to believe me.” Peterson barely even sounded like he believed himself anymore and Kate rose from her chair, shutting her notebook. Castle started to stand with her but the room spun just a little. He held on to the back of his chair and managed to steady himself and swallowed hard. It was probably the flu, he told himself, or a cold messing up his inner ear balance.

“Mr. Peterson, what I see is that you beat a man to death who showed no indication he posed any threat to you,” Beckett said. “And while you admit this – knowing you’re being recorded – you still refuse to sign a written confession.”

“I had to stop him,” Peterson snapped, even as he leaned over to wipe his eyes again. “I. . .I just know it.”

Beckett started for the door and Castle tested his balance before he let go of the chair completely and followed her. He was still a little queasy but the floor was steady under his feet. Beckett was probably just planning on giving Peterson another break before trying him again.

“What do you think?” he asked quietly.

Her face twisted in almost a grimace as she almost whispered, “I think he really believes himself.

She had the door half open when Petersons stood as much as his chains would allow. “Wait. He. . .he spoke to me.”

Beckett turned slowly, very measured and Castle was glad Peterson seemed totally focused on her since he was pretty sure that he had sweat beading on his forehead. Definitely the flu.

“What did he say?”

This was a new addition to the other two previous accounts of the story and Castle leaned what he hoped was discreetly against the door frame. He wasn’t exactly dizzy, but he was feeling just strange enough to not want to risk standing unassisted.

“He asked what I thought about the works of Shan Yu.” Peterson sounded like he thought that was supposed to mean something and for some reason the name actually sounded familiar to Castle.

Beckett looked blank. “Shan Yu? Who’s Shan Yu?”

“Shan Yu!” Peterson looked near to panic and Castle frowned as a whisper of memory dangled just out of reach.

“You’re going to have to give me something more than that,” Beckett told him and abruptly Castle almost smiled as he remembered where he’d heard the name.

“Shan Yu. Like the villain in Mulan? A Disney character made you kill a man?” For some reason the connection of the name with the movie Alexis had loved as a child quelled an irrational flash of terror.

Peterson looked totally lost and Beckett sighed. She was getting tired, Castle realized. “What else did he say?”

“Nothing,” Peterson whispered, dropping his head to his hands as if he suddenly realized how insane he had to sound.

“And how, Mr. Peterson, was that a threat?”

“I don’t know,” Peterson whispered again.

Kate shook her head just slightly as she walked out the door and Castle followed her. Detective Kevin Ryan was waiting for them in the hallway and he handed Beckett a glossy photo that looked like it had come from a DMV record. It had to be their victim, he realized. His face hadn’t made much of an impression on Castle at the crime scene but he realized he probably hadn’t seen it squarely. Their victim was a distinguished looking man – probably in his seventies – with small, neat glasses perched on his nose and Castle wondered for a moment how anyone could find it threatening.

But the entire hallway spun and Castle felt himself toppling. He managed to get an arm on the wall, which didn’t stop him from falling but at least made is a semi-undignified slide down rather than a head-smashing crash.

“Castle,” he head Kate shout and he tried to speak, wanting to tell her not to worry, that he just had the flu and that he’d be fine but he froze with his mouth open as a quiet voice seemed to ghost across the back of his brain. “Do you know the writings of Shan Yu?”


	2. Chapter 2

The images swam, blurry, but every time he tried to grasp at them they swam away, like particularly demented fish, trying to leave them alone with the pain. That was constant – the pain – and almost unendurable pulsing agony in the center of his chest and a burning at the top of his left ear.

“Rick?” He recognized Beckett’s voice through the fog and he felt her name form on his lips as the sensations, the cloaking mist and the pain all faded. He would have thought it had been hours except Ryan was still struggling to get his phone out of his pocket and a few people had turned to stare but no one appeared to have had time to move.

“Sorry about that,” Castle said, managing to push himself into a sitting position. “I tripped.”

“That’s,” Ryan said, his voice unusually harsh, “bullshit. You full-on passed out. I’m getting an ambulance.”

“No,” Castle protested. “I’m okay.” He wasn’t and he knew it but for some reason he didn’t want anyone looking at him. It made no sense whatsoever but it felt important to him that he not explain what he’d felt or heard.

“Kate, I’m fine. Really. I promise.”

It wasn’t a lie, he tried to reason with himself, because when he stood up, he felt alright.

“Castle,” Ryan protested, “your eyes rolled back in your head and you were twitching.”  
“Was I? It just felt like I tripped.” He shrugged, trying to pretend he didn’t care because he knew being unreasonable would be more likely to raise suspicion. “I wonder if I might have the flu?” He felt his own forehead and Beckett’s hand brushed his aside while their gazes. Barefoot, her eyes were about level with his chin but she was wearing boots with nearly four inch heels that were custom made to still appear delicate but to be stable enough she could run in them if necessary. The added height was one of Beckett’s few vanities but he’d seen her use it to her advantage countless time.

“You don’t have a fever,” she murmured. “Ryan, are you sure about what you saw?” She would have had her back to him but he was suddenly surprised she hadn’t picked up on his discomfort in the interrogation room since they were usually so in tune with each other.

Ryan looked restless, then sighed. “I thought so. Maybe I was wrong.”

“Can you have uniforms escort Mr. Peterson back to holding. I want to go talk to Lanie about our vic. I’ll have her take a quick look at Castle as well.”

“I’m not that bad off,” Castle joked, since Dr. Lanie Parrish was a medical doctor but she was also the medical examiner who dealt with their victims.

Beckett’s glare was fond exasperation and Ryan just rolled his eyes. “Yeah, sure,” he replied, patting Castle on the arm as he walked by. “Glad it was nothing.”

He felt a little bad, Castle realized, in lying to someone who was such a good friend. It was most likely that – without Ryan and his partner Esposito – his own and Kate’s relationship would have imploded long before it had a chance to become romantic. Or they both just would have been killed by one of the many people who thought that committing another crime might help them get away with the first.

The elevator ride to the lobby made his stomach twist a little but the fresh air as they walked to Beckett’s car – a dark, nondescript sedan that contained few of the gadgets he’d always associated with successful law enforcement before he’d met her; when he’d learned real crime fighters were their own breed, not just the interface between the evidence and a gizmo.

He settled himself into the seat for the short ride to the morgue. It was only a few blocks away and often they walked it but he was guessing Kate had chosen to drive because she was still worried about him.

When he’d first started visiting the morgue, the smell of death and embalming fluids had nearly made him sick for weeks. He’d toughed it out due to pride but he inhaled deeply as they entered the basement lab. After the first year, it hadn’t made him queasy and now he barely noticed it.

Lanie had their victim on the table, his head wound mostly cleaned of the blood and brain matter that were evident in the crime scene photos. “Give me just a second,” she said as she saw them and Castle saw the flash of a needle and realized she saw sewing up his chest cavity. He slid his hands into the purple rubber gloves Kate pulled from a box on the table near the door. While it was unlikely he’d actually be touching anything, it was standard protocol that could save a lot of trouble – he tried not to grimace at the thought – if someone tripped and accidently grabbed something.

Beckett wasn’t quite frowning but she had an abstracted look like her thoughts were elsewhere which was odd since his wife was usually in the moment when trying to bring a killer to justice. “You okay,” he asked and she sighed.

“I don’t know. This one just feels weird. We have a guy who admits to committing a murder but can’t seem to explain why? It just makes no sense.”

“Well, we’ve had lots of people try to plead insanity to get a reduced sentence. Think we might have a real case of it here?”

“But according to the suspect and his sister he has absolutely no history of erratic behavior or even any family history. Sure, maybe he just snapped. . .but why snap and kill an old man.” Her voice was sad and he knew she wasn’t looking forward to explaining the crime to the next-of-kin, though they’d not found any yet. Sergei Antonovich, according to the meager records they’d found on him, had been a middle school history teacher until he had retired in 2009. The only next of kin listed had been a brother who had died in 2011. He had rented a nice but modest apartment a few miles away from where he had been killed and none of the neighbors that uniforms had interviewed knew much about him other than he spent most of his time reading.

Lanie lifted her hand to wave them closer before she pulled off her gloves before donning a fresh pair. “Good timing. I was going to call you as soon as I finished stitching up Mr. Antonovich here. Cause of death, obviously, was blunt force trauma to the head. I decided to check to see if there was anything else that might have contributed but there was nothing. No heart attack, no stroke. Your killer just plain beat him to death.” Ordinarily that would have been good news -- a defense attorney would often try to plea down the crime by stating the assault had exacerbated an existing medical condition. It would still be felony murder under the law that the commission of a crime where someone died was murder, even if the perpetrator hadn’t meant to kill, but it often carried a reduced sentence. “Which is not as easy as you’d think, actually, in a street in broad daylight with a bunch of witnesses. But what I really called you about was this.”

Lanie walked over to the desk where the victim’s clothes were folded and pulled a tweed jacket off the peg on the wall next to the desk. “I have no idea what’s in here but whatever it is, it’s sewn into the lining. I only noticed it when I tried to fold the jacket and felt the paper in there.”

Becket took the jacket and together she and Lanie looked for some kind of zipper or fastener to a hidden pocket. It felt like an envelope to Castle and it was located on the left, along the side the ribs when it was being worn. It was easy to see how they’d missed it since Antonovich had been lying on his left side when witnesses had finally been able to drag Peterson away from Antonovich.

Lanie finally produced a scalpel and they slit the thread between the lining and the tweed and Beckett pulled out a thin white envelope. “Too light to be money,” Castle theorized out loud mostly because he knew it would appear to annoy Beckett but that she actually enjoyed it. “He’s Russian, right? Maybe a list of Russian spies in the U.S. and he was killed so some CIA cover organization could search his apartment without interruption? Maybe a list of U.S. spies in Russia and he died protecting them?”

Kate’s grin was brief but it reached her eyes for a moment before she lifted the flap; if it had been sealed they’d have needed a warrant but they were in luck, it was merely tucked. “Nothing so interesting. It’s just a picture of a woman?” The picture was only about three inches square, on regular printer paper and non-photo ink if the quality was any indication. 

“So he’s got a girlfriend he doesn’t want anyone to know about?” Except the handsome black woman in the photo was at least three decades younger and Castle pointed at the picture. “I recognize her.”

“Isn’t that,” Kate said, her voice betraying her surprise, “the actress from ‘The Wives of Wallstreet’ TV show?”

“Yeah. Penelope something,” Castle said. 

“I get being a fan of a TV show,” Lanie stated. “But to sew a picture into the lining of your coat? That’s odd.”

“There are more photos in here,” Kate said, her gloved fingers digging into the envelope. The picture came out back first and Castle felt his brows go up when the second one was Frank Slaughter, another NYPD detective that Castle would classify as slightly insane and fully a sociopath. The third picture was a badly blurred but Castle felt his eyes widen as he recognized the office building where Antonovich had been killed and Peterson was standing near the door, talking on a cell phone and not even seeming to notice he was being photographed.

“Now that’s unexpected.” Lanie commented as she swung a magnifying glass over the picture and the tiny yellow date in the corner popped out 01/12/2015. “Your victim took a picture of his killer nearly three months ago.”

“Maybe Peterson wasn’t so insane after all,” Castle said, glancing back at the pictures of Slaughter and Penelope to see if they were also dated. “He said that Antonovich was a threat to – “

He broke off as Kate gasped and he realized she’d pulled another photo out of the envelope. It was on the same plain paper but he recognized it from the picture they’d taken to put on Storm Fall. He felt the lab swirl like the hallway in the precinct as the voice went through his mind again.

“Do you know the writings of Shan Yu?”


	3. Chapter 3

They’d lost the Patriots – idiots were the most pathetic trackers she’d ever seen – but Charlie knew it was only a matter of time before they were totally surrounded by at least two Companies worth of men where the greater force of the tan-clad Soldiers would completely overrun whatever defense they could set up.

“Great, this is just great, Miles,” Monroe was sniping and she ignored him. He’d been getting on her nerves more and more in the last few days as he’d mostly ignored her in favor of bitching at her uncle but she was sympathized with him. It had been two months since they’d managed to get Texas to turn against the Patriots and the three of them had been following a potential lead on Truman. Miles might not have cared about him any longer but he’d promised Gene he’d try to find Marion’s murderer. Monroe hadn’t wanted to come on the recon but Miles had talked him into it and the words ‘I told you so’ were about the only complaint he hadn’t voiced in the last two days they’d been on the run. They’d figured out about a half-day ago that they’d walked into a trap and she knew Miles was furious he’d fallen for it; Miles was the biggest dick when he was pissed at himself.

They were coming into a small town that looked totally deserted and Monroe stomped over to the well in the town square. He swore when the rope came up with no bucket. The town looked like a mix of pre and post blackout architecture and Charlie swore as she rushed to the well. There were a handful of stones and she grabbed one, relieved to hear the splash clearly.

“What are you doing?” Monroe asked as she slid out of her backpack and fastened her crossbow hastily to the leather straps.

“Most of these wells,” she said, “got built up from places where there was once an actual infrastructure. There’s a good chance there are tunnels down there from the old water lines.” Or sewage lines. 

“So you want us to trap ourselves underground on the chance their might be a way out?” Monroe sounded more resigned than angry and Charlie noticed Miles was untwining his rifle-sling from his right arm.

“Fine,” she said, dropping her pack into the well, idly wondering how long it would take to dry everything – assuming they survived. “Stay here and do nothing.” They probably had about fifteen minutes of lead-time before the Patriots had them completely surrounded. Monroe muttered something clearly not complimentary but he shoved his pistol into his waistband. “We don’t know how deep this is so try to do as close to a bellyflop as you can,” Charlie ordered. She swung her legs over the low stone wall and braced herself. It was too narrow to rock chimney and widened out fast so she swung her legs into an L with the rest of her body and let go, taking a deep breath.

She could have sworn she heard a splash but she felt like her lungs were ripped apart and she landed hard on a dry, flat stone surface – not stone, she realized with a shock. It was a metal plate and the entire room was brightly lit enough for her to see her pack and crossbow about ten feet away from where she’d landed

“What the goram hell?” She heard someone yell and she lunged for her crossbow just as she heard the distinctive click of a weapon being cocked.

“Don’t do it,” another voice ordered, much calmer and angrier than the first and she turned to stare down the barrel of a firearm that looked different from the guns she’d become all too comfortable with in the last few years. He was dressed mostly in drab shades close to tan but he clearly wasn’t a Patriot.

There was a loud thunk from behind her and the man looked away from her to focus on whoever had landed – Monroe, she realized, based on the string of curses. The former dictator was on his feet in a reaction time that would once have astounded her but she now considered normal for him

Her leap was instinctual as she forced herself from the half-crouch to barrel into the man in front of her, forcing his gun-hand up as all hell broke loose.

Miles landed on his feet behind the man Charlie was struggling with – he clearly hadn’t followed her advise – and she heard his howl of pain as one of his ankles went sideways but she didn’t have time to notice more than Monroe’s shouted, “Miles” before the guy she was tangling with got her in a modified headlock, the top of her head pulled into his chest. She slammed a fist into his solar-plexus and he grunted but his grip didn’t loosen. A knife dangled at his belt and she reached for it as he swung her around so his arm was locked around her throat and her back was to him.

“Don’t move,” she heard a woman’s voice order and she swung her head enough to get her hair out of her face, one had still groping for the man’s knife.

Monroe and the man in brown were pointing pistols at each other and she wondered if either of them had even thought to blink. Miles was behind her but the voice belonged to a woman standing on a catwalk that stretched across the back of the room with a set of stairs leading down to them. She had dark skin and curly hair and her shotgun was pointed at where she’d last seen Miles standing.

Her fingers closed on the hilt of the knife but the man holding her pinned her arm to his side and she struggled to draw it but it was like being held by bands of iron. She started to sag when she realized the light in the room wasn’t from windows or lamps but from real glowing lights that ran high above their heads.

“What,” the man in the brown coat snapped and Charlie could hear real fury in his voice, “are you doing on my boat.”

“Boat?” Monroe asked. His voice didn’t waver but Charlie saw his eyes flick around the room.

“It’s too big,” Miles said from behind her, “for any of the waterways around Austin. Which ocean are we on?”

And how, Charlie wondered, had they gotten there. She wasn’t sure if they’d been knocked unconscious and moved or what exactly had happened.

“Ocean?” She heard the confusion in brown-coat’s voice before it dropped back to just plain mad. “Serenity ain’t no water rat. You’re in the black.”

“Black?” She heard the odd pitch to Miles voice – he had a theory and she was pretty sure he didn’t like it. “Do you mean. . . .”

“She’s a space ship,” the woman confirmed. Her aim hadn’t waivered but she sounded a little more sympathetic.

“You have electricity,” Monroe gasped and she saw the surprise in his face – though his hand didn’t move either.

“Why? Don’t you?” the man holding her asked and Charlie shook her head. 

“No. Not since I was a little girl.” He swore and she felt his breath on the back of her head but his grip slacked enough she was able to draw the knife at least part way out of the sheath before he got her hand clamped to her side again and Monroe shifted his aim to the man holding her.

“Let her go,” the former dictator ordered but brown-coat stepped into him, the barrel of his pistol against the side of Monroe’s head.

“Listen here,” Brown coat swore something and she didn’t recognize the words but they were clearly not complimentary. “I’m the only person to give orders on this ship, sure as hell not you. So you’re going to drop your piece or I’m going to put a bullet into your skull.”

Monroe snorted and Charlie winced at the scorn in his voice. “But not before I put one into your friend first.”

“Then I shoot you and Zoe picks whoever she wants to kill next. Your call.”

She saw the bunching of his muscles, realizing he was going to try to tackle brown-coat and she dropped the knife-hilt, putting her arms in front of her as much as she could. “Enough,” she yelled. “Bass, if they were going to kill us they’d have done it already.” As much as she didn’t like situation the other people clearly had no more idea what they were doing there than she did. “How would you like it if they came into your home uninvited.”

“How did you get here?” the man holding her asked and she turned her head enough to see Miles had managed to get a lot closer than he’d been at first – almost within striking distance of the man holding her.

“We have no idea,” she admitted. “One moment we were trying to avoid a Patriot trap by jumping into a well. . .and then we were here.”

“Nice try,” he sneered but he didn’t hold her when she stepped away, hands still held away from her. Bass glared at her but he didn’t resist when she touched his wrist and pushed the pistol so it wasn’t aiming at anyone and he finally sighed and tucked it back into his waistband.

“What are the Patriots?” brown-coat asked, his voice still betraying his irritation but he seemed less angry.

“We’re not sure,” Miles said. “They claim to be the U.S. government but they’re clearly something else, trying to take over.” 

“Bastards burned my city to the ground,” Monroe growled. “Destroyed it and everyone in it, just so they could claim they were coming to help. And then they pinned it all on me.”

Brown-coat’s momentary look of – Charlie almost thought it was sympathy – faded to something closer to confusion. “Why would they blame it on you?”

“Because it was my city,” Monroe replied and this time the rage had muted into surprise of his own. “Because of who I am.”

“So who are you,” her former handler asked. He looked a few years younger than Miles – mid thirties if she had to guess; about the age she usually thought Monroe was before she was reminded he was actually a few months older than her uncle. He was staring at her intently and it took Charlie a moment to realize he wasn’t just assessing her as a threat.

“Sebastian Monroe.” Bass’ voice was partly defiant, partly almost apologetic sounding but the woman was the only one that moved, lowering her shotgun a little.

Brown-coat also dropped his hand, his own weapon pointed at the floor. “Malcolm Reynolds.”

Charlie saw Monroe’s and Miles’ eyes both widen in surprise when no one seemed to react to Monroe’s name. “I’m Miles,” her uncle said “Miles Matheson.”

It got as little reaction as Monroe’s name had but the woman almost smiled. “I’m Zoe. And that’s Jayne.”

It was not the name she’d expected for a man and she tried not to smile. There was a certain irony to having a boy’s name – even if was just a nickname when the man had a girl’s name and she wondered if his name was short for anything or his parents really had named him Jayne.

“See you favoring your right foot,” Zoe said, her free hand gesturing at Miles. “You break it?”

“Happened when I landed,” Miles said and Charlie watched him lift it off the ground, wincing in pain he’d clearly been trying to hide. “Not sure if it’s broken or just badly sprained.”

“Well I didn’t invite you here,” Reynolds said, his voice cold but firm. “But sounds like you weren’t planning it any more than we were. I have a decent enough doctor, if you’d let him take a look at it. Then I’d be obliged if you’d tell me a little more about these Patriots. Not that I hold any warm feelings for the Alliance, but if there’s another threat out there, I’d like to know about it in advance.”

“I don’t think that’s something you need to worry about,” Monroe said, walking over and putting his shoulder under Miles’ right arm so his friend could use him as a crutch. Miles glared at Monroe but Charlie noticed he didn’t resist.

“Why’s that?” Reynolds asked and Monroe snorted.

“Well unless this is some really elaborate nano-dream like Aaron described , I’m not even sure we’re in the same world we left. Not that the nano couldn’t cook up something like this – creepy that they even knew about my snake nightmare.”

“Nano?” Zoe asked and Miles shook his head.

“Never mind for now. But I’d take you up on the offer to see that doctor. I nearly lost a hand that went septic a few months ago and I’d hate to ignore a foot if I really did break it.”

“Certainly. This way.” Captain Reynolds gestured at the stairs – and Charlie started to move towards Miles’ other side but Jayne beat her to it; she wondered if she was imagining the look he directed at her because it was gone a moment later.

They were a little lopsided going up the stairs – Jayne was a few inches taller than Miles, who was a few inches taller than Monroe and she let them get a head start on her before she started up the stairs. Reynolds followed her – his pistol still in his hand but she supposed he had every reason to be suspicious. They paused half-way up to let the three get farther ahead of them and Reynolds leaned back against the railing, his eyes coldly appraising.

“So I don’t believe I heard you introduce yourself there, Miss.” There was suspicion in his gaze but nothing more than there had been and she almost smiled. She’d gotten into the habit of not using her name around strangers but if Miles Matheson and Sebastian Monroe had meant nothing to him she was pretty sure hers wouldn’t get a reaction either.

“I’m Charlie. Charlie Matheson,” she added and watched his eyes flick towards Miles.

“Well, you seem a little young for him but who as I to judge?” There was a bitterness in his voice she was pretty sure had nothing to do with any of them and she felt her eyebrows raise in surprise. Most people just supposed Miles was her father.

“He could just be my dad,” she commented. There were times she wondered it herself, in dark moments that she hated; not because she didn’t love Miles but because she couldn’t help but cling to the memories of Ben and Danny and their flawed life she hadn’t appreciated but that seemed such a haven compared to everything that had come after it. The fact that there was even a chance that she was a product of Miles and her mother’s affair made her love Ben all the more because he hadn’t been a stupid man and if he had loved her that much, even knowing there was a chance she wasn’t his made her all the more special to her.

Reynolds glanced up at Miles, than back at her, his head shaking. “No.” He sounded so sure of himself it irritated her; who was this stranger make that sort of determination in just a few minutes when she herself wasn’t sure? But then his forehead creased and he shrugged. “Then again, you didn’t seem too worried about him when things were looking like they were coming to a fight, even with him injured.”

“Miles can take care of himself. Even injured.” She heard the pride in her voice, realizing she’d never really been worried about him, even though he’d been without a weapon in hand and she wondered if they’d find his rifle anywhere around near where her pack had landed. “But you’re right, he’s not my father.” She paused enough for Reynolds to start looking smug before adding, “He’s my Uncle.”

Reynolds just shrugged again and headed them up the stairs again. They were met at the top by a man in a white button-down shirt who looked much younger than Reynolds, Zoe or Jayne and he barely glanced at them, his glare focused on Reynolds.

“Who are they,” he demanded and Reynolds raised an eyebrow and the younger man flushed but his next words came out almost pleading. “Yes, I know, Serenity is your ship and yes, I’ll treat him. But how do we know for sure they aren’t bounty hunters. What if the Alliance changed their mind about wanting her back?”

It meant nothing to Charlie but Zoe looked suddenly suspicious at them. “He might have a point, Mal,” she said, her tone cautious and her shotgun not quite up but not quite down either.

“Because I believe them.” Reynolds’ voice sounded almost angry again but mostly tired. “Don’t know why but I do. Charlie was right when she said if we’d have meant them harm they’d have been dead already but you learn to know the worth of a man pretty quick.” His glare at Monroe and Miles wasn’t kind but then he shrugged. “And it could have been going the other way, right enough. You look close enough in their eyes you see they don’t mind killing when it suits them. And if they were after River, it would have suited them. What would have been left after Zoe, Jayne and I were down? No, they’re not here for her. But,” his voice went darker, which Charlie hadn’t thought possible, “I want your story when the doc is patching up your ankle.”

“I suppose that’s fair,” Miles said and she could tell her Uncle was doing his best to look non-threatening. He was terrible at it but it was almost amusing to watch him try.

They shuffled their way along the hallway and down another, shorter set of stairs to what even Charlie recognized as an infirmary and the doctor settled Miles into a chair and ordered him to take off his boot. It was Monroe who finally got it off –after a lot of swearing on both their parts and what she thought might have been a tiny bit of laughter on Monroe’s but his face was blank when he finally stood, holding Miles’ boot in one hand.

Charlie was just reaching over to take it from him when a girl peeped around the doorframe. Charlie thought for a moment that she was just a child but the slip-dress she wore showed off faint curves of breast and hip as the girl pushed herself further into the room. Her face reminded Charlie of the people she’d seen recovering from Patriot programming or nano-worship; almost, but not quite vacant happiness overlaying something that hinted at profound terror and pain.

“River,” the doctor gasped, looking suddenly terrified. “What are you doing here?”

“Had to come see Vince,” the girl said.

One of her delicate hands pointing at Monroe. Her cheerful voice dropped to a sad whisper as the doctor started to protest and Janye grumbled something about “here we go again.”

“Do I know you?” Monroe asked, his voice almost startlingly gentle and the girl sighed, looking even sadder.

“No. Part of me knows you. But it’s obvious you don’t remember. I don’t remember everything,” The last sounded like a tragic confession but she raised her fingers and Monroe echoed her gesture until their palms were pressing together. The former dictator looked politely confused and everyone else was looking a little worried but not exactly surprised and the girl signed again. “Maybe it’s for the best. This way her heart can’t be broken again because Vince never loved anyone but Dana.” The girl pulled her hand back, her face so sad and Charlie saw the ‘what the hell’ glances Monroe and Miles exchanged but then Monroe’s eyes rolled back in his head and he pitched forward onto the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So these two stories weren't meant to merge right now. The Castle/Firefly plotline was supposed to be first and then eventually lead to a Firefly/Revolution plotline. But when do things ever work out cleanly and I started writing the Firefly/Revolution with the idea of just having the characters meet (I wanted to have a Monroe/Miles/Malcolm/Jayne faceoff. . .which ended up with a lot less yelling than I had originally planned, but that's okay). All I was planning to do was use the same concept of some kind of reality rift to bring them together. But what's the odds it would happen twice, and I remembered David Lyons and Summer Glau were in The Cape together so maybe more than one personality gets to blur at the same time. The chance for multiple-character interactions will make it a little more confusing; but it will also give a lot more opportunity for plot.


	4. Chapter 4

Sebastian Monroe felt like he was floating in a warm air current, his body weightless as he drifted through a fogbank; though he'd never felt fog so warm in his entire life. The mist parted around a group of people. The floating sensation ended and he was standing in front of a pretty blond woman who was frozen like a plastic maniquen from a clothing store buthe'd never seen anyone make a woman's face with such a haunted look in her eyes, as if she had endured something that had tested her on every level. There was a boy beside him who looked almost as sad as she did and he reached out, touching the boy on the shoulder. The figure was unmoving but it was warm, clearly not some kind of plastic after all, even if he was inanimate.

The hair on the back of his neck prickled as the fog swept away entirely and he realized the whole area was filled with people, though he felt his brow furrowing in confusion at the midget, a gray haired man and a beautiful blond woman who stood next to each other, both dressed in the most outlandish costumes. The midget was mostly in black leather slashed with red , the gray haired man was wearing purple velvet and the blond woman -- what little there was of her dress -- was in moss-green gauze that plunged daringly in front and was practically non-existant in back. She wasn't as young, he realized, as he had first thought.

The two men standing slightly apart from each other also made him frown. The first man was covered in scales, bald and tough looking but the shiver down his spine was from the other person who looked completly normal. The man had dark hair, a face that could seem ugly or handsome, depending on his personality but his eyes had pupils in the shape of chess pieces.

"Vincent!"

The voice came from behind him and Monroe spun around just in time to see a dense black man striding towards him, his heigth and weight balancing out to give him a sense of power that was even more noticable than the flamboyant clothes in shades of black and midnight blue.

Monroe fell back a step and then he sat up gasping, aware of a cold deck beneath his back and Charlie and the doctor bent over him, their faces reflecting their surprise. Miles was still on the table, like he hadn't had time to move more than to crane his head.

He stared around the room wildly, partially glad he'd woken from whatever the hell he'd hallucinated and partly expecting the black man to be waiting for him. He'd looked nothing like Jim Hudson and hadn't exactly sounded like him either but there'd been something in his manner that had reminded him of Jim. He opened his mouth to tell Miles but snapped it shut again. Miles was -- quite justifiably -- not willing to talk much about Jim. There were a lot of things the two of them had shelved to deal with the Patriots and Monroe found himself wondering if -- when the Patriots were ever defeated -- if the two of them would go back to fighting or if they'd just decide to move on and ignore the ugly, bloody past.

The dark haired girl's lips turned up in a smile that somehow wasn't and Monroe felt the same prickle at the back of his neck. He hadn't seen her in his vision but he realized that he'd felt her presense there -- or at least something like it. She wandered away, as if suddenly no longer interested in him but paused at the doorway. "Did you ever love anyone but Dana?"

"No," he heard his own voice, even felt his lips frame the words, but he had no idea why he'd spoken out loud. Except, he realized in shock, it was the truth, even if he had no idea whose truth it was.

"What the hell are you talking about," Miles snapped and he realized his brother's glare was fear -- not anger. The girl slipped out the door, her bare feet making no noise on the deck and Bass pressed his eyes together so he didn't have to watch Charlie's face -- unlike Miles, she just looked pissed off, which was normal when she didn't understand what was going on. She channed her fears into funry, he'd learned the first day he'd met her in Philadelphia and it was one of the qualities he admired about her, even if it sometimes made her difficult. But it reminded him so much of Miles, even though Charlie's anger had a purity to it; some kind of driving force to make the world a better place like Miles had in the beginning, before too many sacrifices had torn his brother apart from the inside. He wondered if he and Miles would be able to save Charlie from that.

"Forget about it, Miles," he said softly, sitting up and shoving the doctor back away from him. "It isn't important."

"You pass out on my boat and you think it's not important," the Captain snapped. "I couldn't care less about your health. . .but if you're carting around sickness, that becomes very much my problem. Doc, I want all three of them checked to see if they're carrying anything."

The doctor nodded and Charlie flashed him a glare that could have melted paint. He glanced over at Miles and saw his face set in a similar frown to Charlie's but there was something behind it that warmed something in Bass' soul, even as Miles sighed. "Bass, if I have to turn my head and cough because of you, I'm kicking your ass."

 

It took two hours before the doctor declared them free of germs, virus, diseases and headlice. Monroe was about to protest that of course they were when he caught a flash of something that might have been humor in the doctor's eyes and he shook his head. Whatever the doctor had done, Miles was up and hobbling around, allbeit with an air-cast on his ankle. He'd sprained it, the doctor had told them, but that he might wish he'd have broken it when it came to healing time. He saw panic in Charlie's eyes and was about to ask her what was wrong but she shook her head slightly, and he resolved to ask her later.

"Dinner should be ready soon," the doctor told them and Monroe nodded.

"I'd be right glad of some hot food, if it's available. We've been making do with cold pan-bread and dried venison for about a week now."

"It won't be fancy. We've been living off mostly protien powder in whatever way Kaylee feels up to fixing it ourselves. But the change might be nice."

Miles was crutching ahead of them and the Doctor had moved to ensure he could handle the short flight of steps that led to a hallway so Monroe held back until Charlie was beside him.

"What's wrong?" he asked and she glared at him.

"Didn't you hear the Doctor? Miles might be weeks healing his ankle. How are we supposed to stay ahead of the Patriots," she hissed. "We don't know how long we'll be here or if we're even here at all. This could still be a nano-dream."

"Could be," he admitted. "But if so, I think there's a chance Miles landed in water, not on solid deck, so he might not be injured at all. And if he is. . .well, I'd hate to die in a sewer system but it that's what it's got to be, then that's what will be."

She stared at him hard for a long time, then nodded slowly. "You're not going to run off and leave him?"

He let the burning rage show on his face for just a moment before he had to admit -- even if he'd come back -- he'd left her to die in a fight once so she had reason to worry but he closed his eyes, letting the exaustion of the last few days wash over him and the complete disorientation of being in a hallway, electic lights burning around him and the hum of some kind of engine faintly pulsing at the back of his brain. "If he dies, I die with him."

She nodded and he could feel her relief like a living thing and she gave him a firm nod as she started after Miles but stopped when she realized he'd reached out to grab her wrist. "Except. . ." he nearly choked on the words but forced them out anyway, "Except if it's him or you. . .if by letting him die I can save you." He saw the fury in her face and how close she was to lashing out before he dropped her wrist and stepped back. "He'd want that. You know he would."

Charlie took a deep breath and Monroe saw the fury morph into frustrated understanding before she nodded, but her face creased into a bitter smile. "If he's not going to make it then I'm going to take out as many of them as I can. I don't care it I make it through it or not. And I also don't care about whatever plans the two of you make about me. I'm not --" she broke off when Miles got to the top of the steps and turned to glare at them.

"Hurry up, you two. There's no reason I should be the fastest one here when I'm the one on crutches."

Monroe watched Charlie arrange her features into something resembling a smile, but he was pretty sure, by the way his eyes narrowed, that Miles wasn't fooled into believign she was anything but furiously angry right then.

The Captain was in the dining room area when they arrived, his hands full of silverware that he handed of to Monroe without any explanation of where it went. But there were ten spoons and ten forks and he counted ten chairs, even if a few of them appeared to be rough stools and possibly hasty additions.

"I assume they passed muster, Doc," he said and the doctor was starting to answer when the intercom buzzed and the voice of the man the crew called Jayne rang out.

"Captain, better get down to the cargo hold. We got more visitors."

Charlie swore bitterly, her face creasing in hatred. "If they're wearing tan uniforms, kill them immediately. They're the Patriots we were running from and you can't trust them."

"That ain't who's here," Jayne barked and Monro saw the Captain's eyebrow's raise in what sounded like panic and possibly desperation in the other man's tone.

"Zoe," he called and the dark-haired woman with the shotgun from earlier swung into the hallway, following the Captain at a near run. After a moment, Monroe followed them, hearing Charlie's footsteps ringing behind him.

They entered the upper portion of the cargo-hold, a high angle over Jayne and the three figures standing a few feet apart from him. The burly man was dead white and his gun dangled at his side as he stood between the stairs and the three. The one in front was a woman, a man just behind her and another man partially hidden behind him who was shacked at the wrists, his head bent forward and gripped in his hands. The only one who appeared armed in the new group was the woman but while she had her gun partially raised, she wasn't pointing it at anyone. Monroe's first impression - grattitude that the new group clearly weren't Patriots -- faded into shock when he processed the features of the man standing just behind the woman and he shifted to look at the Captain who appeared frozen to the spot on the stairway.

It took Monroe a few turns of his head to realize the man in the cargo hold was a little older, a little heavier, but it was clearly the same person as the Captain. It might have been a brother, but he felt his skin crawling with something he couldn't identify and some part of him knew the explanation was too simple.

"Slaughter," the dark-haired woman was saying. "What the hell is going on here?" She was talking to Jayne, Monroe realized, as if she knew him. Her voice was angry, but not particularly worried, but then she looked up and Monroe saw her freeze, her head swiveling between the man behind her and the Captain, as if she were as shocked as the rest of them. The final man with them finally lifted his head and Monroe heard the Captain gasp, his eyes growing wider. 

Monroe only had a moment to wonder what could startle a man more than even looking at his own image when Zoe cried out, her voice breaking into something heartbroken and wordless before she stumbled past the Captain and practically threw herself down the stairs.

The woman with the gun started to raise it, then her face creased even further. "Penelope?" she asked, but Zoe ignored her, throwing herself around Jayne, and into the red-haired man. 

"Wash," she was yelling, her voice shaken and containing more than a hint of tears that didn't show in her eyes. Her gaze focused on the handcuffs then back at the dark-haired woman. "Give me the keys."

"I. . . ." the dark haired woman hesitated, her head still turning between the man behind her and the Captain. "Penelope, Slaughter, what's going on here."

"Kate," the not-Captain said, "I hate to be the one to tell you this, but this isn't Penelope. And that isn't Detective Slaughter."

"What the hell are you talking about?" the woman snapped. "Of course they are. And whichever one of your impersonators you hired to play this, enough is enough." She was genuinely angry, Monroe realized, but he had a feeling it was like Charlie's anger, a mask for fear.

"Kate," the not-Captains voice was gentle but it was shaking badly. "I. . .look at him."

Zoe had her arms around the man she called Wash who was in turn staring at her with an expression that was a mix of terror and exhileration. "I don't know your name," he said, but his head fell forward onto her shoulder. "But I know you. I just don't know how."

"It's okay, baby," Zoe crooned, and Monroe had a feeling he was seeing a side of the woman that wasn't something people normally got a chance to witness.

"Detective Beckett," the shackled man said and Monroe watched his shoulders straighten from what looked like had become a permanant slump. "Please. I promise I won't try to run away. But remember when I told you I had to kill that man to protect my family but I didn't remember who they were? Well, I don't know how I know it. . .but this is them."

Beckett hesitated, glancing between Zoe and the man she called Wash and Zoe nodded, her face taking on a deadly calm that Monroe felt was a more effective threat than any words she could have spoken until she nodded, just slightly. "My name is Zoe Washburn. And this man is my husband, who died two years ago."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here's to an end of what has been about two-and-a-half years of writers block. It's a short chapter, but it's at least a chapter (I think the last update was April of 2015, back when I was still in Afghanistan). I've actually been writing a lot lately, mostly original works, but it's been annoying me that I have four incomplete stories on here that I need to finish. It will probably take me a while but this is the first progress I've made in a while so I want to celebrate it. Hopefully there isn't too much going on in this. Trying to describe what's happening from Monroe's perspective was tough, but it started to come together and I went with it rather than risking more years of debating how things should be done.
> 
> I haven't decided who's perspective the next chapter will be, most likely Mal or Kate or Castle. Each one has merit, and we're going to get all three of them before this is done, as well as a lot of other interactions (the Charlie/Jayne hookup pretty much wrote itself in a notebook at work one night. Whiskey and bad decisions may work for the rest of the world, but when do Matheson's need whiskey to make bad decisions). Now that they're all here, memories and personalities are going to start blurring between characters and their mirrors and it's going to cause all sorts of problems. For simplicity sake, Detective Slaughter and Penelope won't be making the trip onto Firefly. That would take a little too long and I can't think if a purpose it would serve (Slaughter and Jayne would hate each other on principal but could probably be drinking buddies if there were no mirrors around and they didn't look at each other. Zoe would just hate Penelope). Hopefully I can get another chapter up soon.

**Author's Note:**

> I have often wondered what Malcolm Reynolds and Richard Castle would think of each other and that turned into wondering what they would think if each of them began to experience each others memories and personalities. The murder frame is an opportunity to bring Wash (and Shepard Book) back to the crew. . .because I need them for another Firefly crossover I have planned with Miles Matheson, Charlie Matheson and Sebastian Monroe.


End file.
